


Laying love on the page

by 5ftjewishcactus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale and Crowley Have Their Picnic (Good Omens), Fluff, Letters, Love, Love Confessions, Love Letters, No Sex, No Smut, Other, Picnics, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25288864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5ftjewishcactus/pseuds/5ftjewishcactus
Summary: Crowley struggles to write a letter to Aziraphale, expressing how he feels about the angel, now that they're finally free, on their own side.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 102
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens, GO-DIWS Prompt Sprints





	Laying love on the page

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Do It With Style servers Prompt Sprints. Based on a selected prompt, each person has a set amount of time to write as many words based on the prompt. I wrote this one for the prompt "Letters"
> 
> I wrote the first 340ish words during the sprint. I wrote the rest later because I felt like it needed a resolution.

Letters were Aziraphale’s thing. He was the type to write letters by hand, even as society moved on to email and text messages and other forms of digital conversation. Aziraphale could be counted on to continue to write letters by hand in his lovely script. It was the type of thing befitting a fussy bookshop owner who’d live through the invention of the written word and adapted to it easily, even when it still involved a stone block and chisel. In fact, Crowley was convinced Aziraphale probably still had a few cuneiform tablets around somewhere. As well as several scrolls from various eras long gone. 

That wasn’t the point. The point was that Crowley could count on Aziraphale to be the type of being to write handwritten letters. Which meant he was the type of being receptive to receiving handwritten letters. And oh, Crowley had been writing messages to Aziraphale for years. Long before the invention of phones, he’d send the written word to request meetings with Aziraphale. Quick messages, sent by courier or pigeon to request Aziraphale’s presence at a pre-determined meeting location. 

But that wasn’t this. This was… this was Crowley sending a handwritten letter. One that he’d spent days and weeks on, trying to get the wording just right. He needed Aziraphale to understand. And the best way to make the angel understand was with the written word. The angel loved the written word. Loved letters and scrolls and books. Loved the stories that those words could provide. So Crowley, who struggled with voicing the words he so desperately wanted to say, had written a letter. It wasn’t long, it wasn’t eloquent. But there was no way to misunderstand his point. 

_‘Dearest Aziraphale,_

_I write this letter to tell you, the thing I’ve struggled to say to you these past few weeks. Now that we’re on our own side, I need you to know._

_I love you._

_With my whole heart. Have loved you for thousands of years._

_Yours always,_

_Love,_

_Crowley’_

The demon stared at the letter. The words were written in his scribbled scrawl. He sighed and sank back in his chair, surveying the abandoned, crossed out, crumbled attempts around him. They littered his desk, the floor, overflowed out of the rubbish bin. All his failed attempts to convey three little words to the angel he had loved nearly since the beginning. He’d told himself this was his last attempt. So he’d stuck to the most simple of words. No way that Aziraphale could misunderstand. 

He carefully folded up the letter and tucked it into an envelope. He addressed it to A.Z. Fell and sealed it. He just needed to decide how to send it. Old fashioned sort of communication. Could send it by pigeon. Though, Crowley didn’t think there were any courier pigeons these days. Could mail it. But then it could take days and weeks to arrive. Maybe he’d just miracle it over there. But what if Aziraphale received it and read it? Of course, the point of the letter was to be read, but he didn’t necessarily want Aziraphale to read it right away. And he certainly couldn’t take it over there himself. 

Crowley checked the time. If the bookshop was open, Aziraphale wouldn’t be at his desk. If it wasn’t open, he’d be too busy reading to notice if the letter appeared on his desk. That seemed fair. Before Crowley could think about it too much, he snapped his fingers and the letter disappeared. 

It took two minutes for the panic to set in. 

“Oh no,” he said, standing from his chair and beginning to pace. “I… why did I do that? I should’ve just sent it!” 

He raised his hand to snap his fingers again, recall the letter but he paused. What if he’d been wrong? What if Aziraphale were at his desk and had already seen the letter? What if he were reading it right now? What if he’d already read it? Crowley couldn’t bring the letter back and pretend he hadn’t sent it. Not like he could lie and say it was for someone else. 

Crowley shivered. His scales were shimmering across his corporation as the stress threatened to take hold. 

He stood, hands clenched into fists, and took several deep breaths. It would be fine. Even if Aziraphale was currently reading the letter, it would be fine. Crowley wrote the letter to be read. To tell Aziraphale his feelings. He just needed to distract himself. He turned and headed into his plant room. 

*

Half an hour later, Crowley had tended to his plants, reorganized his CD collection, and attempted to take a wall nap. They’d all been minor distracts that had only lasted for a few minutes. He ended up slummed in his chair, awaiting his fate. 

He didn’t have to wait long. There was soon a knock at his door. He could sense Aziraphale on the other side and with a trembling breath, he stood and went to open the door. 

Aziraphale was standing on the other side, the letter held firmly in one hand, while a picnic basket was hanging from his other hand. 

“Hello,” he said, a hopeful smile on his face. “I was hoping we could go for a picnic.” 

“A picnic?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes. I did say, once, that maybe one day we could go for a picnic. I think that day has come. Don’t you?” 

Crowley stared at him a moment. At the opened envelope in his hand. And the picnic basket. Aziraphale was speaking his language. Crowley had always been more for actions than words. Making Hamlet popular. Saving Aziraphale from the Bastille. Cleaning his jacket. His actions always spoke of love. While he’d decided to express those words, finally, in the written form, in Aziraphale’s language, the angel was giving his answer. In Crowley’s language. 

Crowley nodded, unable to speak as he tried to swallow back the tears. Aziraphale tucked the letter into his pocket and held out his arm. Crowley grabbed his jacket and quickly pulled it on, before linking his arm with Aziraphale’s. Together, they walked to St. James Park and had their picnic. In between sips of wine and nibbles of fruit, Crowley said the words out loud and Aziraphale kissed him for the first time. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on tumblr [@5ftjewishcactus](https://5ftjewishcactus.tumblr.com/) or on twitter on my main [@5ftjewishcactus](https://twitter.com/5ftjewishcatus) or on my sfw gen fandom [@2ambiace](https://twitter.com/2ambiace) or my dbh [@asexualhankcon](https://twitter.com/asexualhankcon).


End file.
